"She is off to foreign lands again at last--hev made up her mind
quite sudden-like--and it is thoughted she'll leave in a day or
two. She's been all as if her mind were low for some days past--
with a sort of sorrow in her face, as if she reproached her own
soul. She's the wrong sort of woman for Hintock--hardly knowing a
beech from a woak--that I own. But I don't care who the man is,
she's been a very kind friend to me.
"Well, the day after to-morrow is the Sabbath day, and without
charity we are but tinkling simples; but this I do say, that her
going will be a blessed thing for a certain married couple who
remain."
The fire was lighted, and Fitzpiers sat down in front of it,
restless as the last leaf upon a tree. "A sort of sorrow in her
face, as if she reproached her own soul." Poor Felice. How
Felice's frame must be pulsing under the conditions of which he
had just heard the caricature; how her fair temples must ache;
what a mood of wretchedness she must be in! But for the mixing up
of his name with hers, and her determination to sunder their too
close acquaintance on that account, she would probably have sent
for him professionally.
Pages:
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493